


Death and the Maiden

by the_lion_and_the_unicorn



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Nude Modeling, Painting, Praise Kink, both belong to feyre, i'll add heartbeat kink too just for fun, in an interesting role reversal painter!mor and model!feyre, possibly an exhibition kink if you squint, rhysand's mouth is magic, so are his fingers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_lion_and_the_unicorn/pseuds/the_lion_and_the_unicorn
Summary: Art student Mor convinces her best friend Feyre to help her out with her final project for the semester. What does she need help with? A model for the painting, but Feyre's only one of two models posing. Oh, and she's going to have to be nude for it...Based on Henri Lévy's 1900 painting "La jeune fille et la mort" with Rhys as Death and Feyre as the Maiden
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	Death and the Maiden

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the episode of Gilmore Girls where they host the Festival of Living Portraits the other day and remembered a post I saw recently on tumblr. It was [this closeup](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EiAYTWvXYAExZLl?format=jpg&name=900x900) which was a rotated detail of [this painting by Henri Lévy](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f2/La_jeune_fille..L%C3%A9vy_Nancy_2718.jpg) and then I daydreamed a rather steamy fantasy sort of combining the two. Feysand seems like the perfect pairing to use for it, but I haven't reread ACoTaR in at least a year so it might be a bit out of character. Oh well. It's also the first story I've written in like, six years so please be gentle!

Feyre felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Again. For the third time in an hour, she turned her head to try and catch whoever must be glaring daggers at her instead of taking notes like proper students were supposed to be doing. The room was dim because of the projector and the classroom was arranged as one big rectangle along the walls, so theoretically it could be anyone in the second half of the room. She sighed, reminding herself it was only another fifteen minutes before class let out, and the feeling was more a buzzing fly than glowing eyes in the dark.

Finally the professor drew the class to an end with a final reminder about the paper due next week, and Feyre was ready to shove her notebook in her bag, throw her coat on, and hightail it out of Prythian Hall. Due to the configuration of the tables, however, that wasn't going to happen fast. Suddenly, a shiver ran down her spine. Her head shot up and she locked eyes with the boy who had been sitting across and a bit further back from her. She always noticed him upon entering the room, but his name escaped her every time. Her breath hitched and her heart skipped a beat. He smirked, raising an eyebrow. Was that some sort of challenge? It didn’t matter, as finally the doorway in front of her cleared and she practically ran out of the building and across the quad. Had he somehow noticed her heartbeat skip? No, that's ridiculous! She's not a character in a supernatural YA novel. What was _wrong_ with her? 

"Hey, Feyre, wait up!" called a voice to her left. Feyre turned, watching her friend Mor jog up the steps of the amphitheatre. By the time Mor reached her she was panting.

"Fuck's sake I'm practically _geriatric_!" she gasped, bending over and using Feyre's shoulder to steady herself. After a moment she straightened, grinning. On seeing Feyre's face, however, the grin turned to a frown, and her brow furrowed, "Hey, you okay? You look spooked."

Feyre inhaled and shook her head, "It's nothing- I'm just being stupid."

"Oh, good!" Mor said, grin back on her face- this time resembling the Cheshire Cat.

Feyre narrowed her eyes, "... _Mor_..." she warned.

" _What?!_ I haven't said anything!" Mor's eyes widened in faux-innocence.

Feyre crossed her arms, "No, but you're going to."

Mor slumped, "Ugh fine, but there could've been a slice of my nana's homemade orange cake in your future if you hadn't ambushed my ambush." She flapped a hand in the air, "Just saying."

Feyre raised an eyebrow and drawled, "As much as it pains me, I think I'll survive." Putting her hands on her hips, she asked, "So what insane thing do you need me to do this time?" In their two-year friendship Morrigan had asked her to do a number of odd or embarrassing things. But Mor was her best friend, and so she was forgiven all sins.

Mor led them both over to the ledge of the nearby fountain, drained for the winter after last week's early snowfall. Feyre settled cross-legged next to her, sideways so she was looking at Mor. Mor stayed facing forward, feet flat on the ground.

She took a deep breath and gripped the lip of the fountain, "So... one of my final projects this semester is to do my own interpretation of a classical art piece. We're supposed to use real-life models for at least two prominent figures in our assigned paintings. First, individual studies on each model, and then together as depicted in the scene," she said. "You actually look quite similar to the figure I'd use you as a model for... if you say yes?" Mor bit her lip, darting a glance over to Feyre.

"Oh stop with the worried puppy-dog eyes. I may have taken a lengthy break from painting, but that doesn’t mean I can’t model for one. You know I'll do it," Feyre said, rolling her eyes.

A pause, "Did I... did I mention the figure is nude?"

Feyre gave a wry smile, "Well, no, but considering how often in classical art women were portrayed at the very least semi-clothed, if not completely naked, it doesn't shock me. Besides, I'm not a prude." She patted Mor on the shoulder and said, "It's not a big deal, don't worry. If I truly wasn't comfortable with that sort of thing I'd let you down gently. Promise." 

"Feyre, you really are the light of my life you know!" Mor exclaimed, clapping her hands and beaming at her best friend.

"Lovely. So, which painting is it that you're copying anyway?" Feyre asked.

"I'm not _copying_ , I'm _interpreting_ , and it's kind of an odd one actually. It's called 'Death and the Maiden' and it's by this French painter from 1900... Henri-Léopold Lévy. Here, I'll show you a photo," Mor said. She pulled the picture up on her phone and turned it so that Feyre could see. As Feyre studied the picture, Mor fanned herself and cackled, "If death has me in _that_ kind of embrace when I'm dying, I'll definitely say 'Let me die!'"

* * *

Two weeks later and Mor had done the individual studies for both "Death" and "The Maiden". Now it was time for all three to have a session. She'd signed up for a private studio slot for Saturday and Sunday afternoon. She didn't know how much time she'd need and this late in the semester private studio slots booked up fast.

Saturday was a study in perfect early winter weather: teeth-chattering cold and weak buttery sunlight mixed with lavender-bruised clouds racing across the sky. Mor arrived early to the studio- she was always early when she was nervous. Feyre had texted to say she was running late, but she'd definitely be there to be her "Maiden". Her "Death" arrived just on time, holding a coffee and a relaxed smile on his face. Mor sat chatting with him on the chairs that dotted the wall beneath the windows. Her phone chimed- Feyre was almost there. Good. Mor let out a relieved sigh and began preparing her materials.

A few minutes later Feyre arrived in a windblown frenzy; she was sure she looked like madwoman- her scarf was trying to swallow her head, her hair was definitely all askew, and her cheeks were probably more pink than not- but she'd been daydreaming and time had gotten away from her, and she knew this was important to Mor, so she'd rushed to get there. She pushed open the door to the studio a bit more forcefully than she'd meant to, which elicited a loud bang as it hit the wall. Mor jumped, but a loud guffaw sounded from the windows, attracting Feyre's attention. She'd opened her mouth to apologize- for the bang and for her appearance, and for being late as well- but stopped short when she saw the boy sitting in the chair across from her. _No. Way._ She froze. Her breath hitched and her heart skipped a beat. It was the same boy from class. The one who kept staring at her, making her neck prickle and spine shiver. It had happened another seven times in the last couple weeks- not that she was counting.

Mor walked over and spread an arm in his direction, "Oh good, Feyre, you're here. And the _donkey_ over in the corner is my cousin-"

" _RHYSAND!_ " Feyre shouted. She pointed at him, "AHA! I knew it this time! I remembered!"

Mor looked at her like she'd grown a second head but Rhys just laughed again.

Then, his seemingly-trademark smirk/raised eyebrow combo, and, " _This_ time?"

Feyre blushed, "I, um... you're usually in the classroom before me and... well, I'm bad with names, a bit, sometimes... and remembering things, so... I just..." She trailed off. Mor looked at her curiously.

Rhys's smirk only grew. "Ah, of course. I understand completely now," he deadpanned.

"... I take it you know each other, then...?" Mor asked, glancing between them.

"Yeah, we're in the same Tuesday/Thursday class. Medieval History and Literature with Professor Bryaxis. Small world, eh?" Rhys said.

"...Yeah. Small world," echoed Feyre with a weak laugh.

Mor clapped her hands together, "Right then! Okay! Let's get started! I've blown up copies of the painting in poster size and hung them up where you can see them easily- just in case you need to remember what I'm interpreting. I've put furniture together on the dais in the middle there- that's where you're going to be posing for me. They're not rock hard and they're covered in blankets so it should be pretty comfortable. Rhys, as you know you'll be wearing only that drape around your waist. And Feyre, you're to be completely naked aside from the sheer scarf around your arms. The two of you can strip off, and there are robes you can wear until I've positioned you."

Rhys had been relaxed and wearing only one layer of clothes so he was done changing quickly. Feyre felt flustered from the get-go, and had been wearing several layers, so it took her a fair amount longer. In the meantime Mor put on some soft jazz covers from her favorite movies as background music. Finally, once Feyre was disrobed, Mor called them both over to the dais in the center of the room, positioning Rhys first and Feyre second.

"In the original painting the figures are leaning to the left, but I'm going to flip it to the right. It feels more natural to my eye, and I've noticed it suits your figures better. Feyre, that means your right side is the outer part of the arch, and you're exposing the right side of your neck to Death. Rhys, that means you'll be holding Feyre with your right arm over her torso, coming to rest your right hand under her left breast," Mor explained as she manipulated their limbs. "Your left arm wraps around behind her to come up and cradle her left breast in your left hand," she said, and stepped back to check their tableau. "I thought this made it more interesting, too, because you're Death: about to stop the Maiden's heart, so you've got both of your hands touching her heart."

And touching her heart Rhys certainly was. He could feel it pounding hard and rabbit-quick under his palm, beneath his fingertips. Her breath was fast and shallow, and her body was rigid in his arms. He was a little surprised that Feyre was so nervous- she always looked like the most unflappable person in class. He supposed it was the situation: he was the one doing the touching, after all. Plus, he wasn't feeling all that exposed. Being stark naked and touched was probably a lot harder. Literally. Feyre's nipples had turned a shade pinker and pulled taut. _Interesting_. He twitched his hand and allowed his fingers to brush over her nipple. He was satisfied when he heard (and felt) a small gasp, pretending not to notice.

As the next half-hour progressed Rhys focused on little details about Feyre's hair and her face, since his chin was positioned just behind the shell of her right ear. Her long golden brown hair was soft and wavy, and smelled of coconut and almond. Her eyes were closed, and he could see she had missed a small section when putting on mascara- there was a peek of the light brown of her natural eyelashes. Her lips were a soft pink and freckles dotted her nose and rosy cheeks. Her creamy complexion was a severe contrast to his own darker skin. She shifted her position- still not very relaxed- with a small intake of breath, head tilting away, and he caught a swirl of her perfume: something citrusy with a little bit of floral scent and a hint of spice. It felt oddly familiar, like a cup of tea on a rainy day, and he lost himself a skyscape of stars.

At the sound of a stool scraping against the floor Rhys startled and Feyre opened her eyes, and their attention was drawn over to Mor. She announced she needed a stretch outside so they'd have a ten-minute break, and requested that Feyre try to get more relaxed in that time. Then she walked out the door, leaving them standing in the middle of the room. Rhys turned to Feyre, who'd immediately wrapped her robe around herself again, and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, looking concerned. "You're stiff as a board, and I don't think your heart rate's gone below one-twenty since we began."

"...Yeah, well, I'm nervous, you can't blame me for that," she said, shrugging off his hand and turning away.

"Is it really just nerves? Is it that difficult to relax with me?" Rhys asked. He didn't want to feel hurt by that idea but...

Feyre whirled back around, waving her hands in front of her.

"No! That's not...! Ugh," she'd turned bright red. She covered her face with her hands. "Yes, it is hard to relax, but it's not because I'm uncomfortable, not really... it's actually the exact opposite of discomfort... fuck," the last came out muffled because Feyre had ducked her head again.

Rhys pried her hands away, tilted her chin up, and looked straight into her eyes. He could see the emotion flitting through the stormy grey-blue ocean surrounding her pupils. He asked, "What do you mean- it's the opposite?"

"It's... I _know_ you keep looking at me in class! I can _feel_ it when you do. It's usually this prickle at the back of my neck, but every time I turn you've managed to look away," Feyre's gaze shifted to his lips. "I didn't realize it until one day we were next to each other trying to get out the door at the end of class- it was actually the day Mor asked me to do this stupid thing. You looked at me and shivers went up my spine. And you have that stupid smirk and that look in your eye like you know every one of my secrets and then you raise that goddamn eyebrow like a challenge. And every time my heart skips a beat and pounds in my chest like a kick drum and I can't breathe _and I don't know if I want to punch your lights out or kiss you senseless!_ " Her gaze had drifted back up, eyes smouldering. Rhys's eyebrows had hit his hairline by this last. A pause. He smirked.

"I have an idea," he triumphantly announced. Feyre glared at him.

"Don't you dare make a stupid joke out of this, it's not funny!" Rhys dropped his smile.

"I swear it's not a joke," he said. "I admit it's a bit unorthodox and faster than I'd usually go for but considering our current situation I don't think it's too forward." Feyre tilted her head. 

"And by 'unorthodox' and 'too forward' you're saying... what?"

"This painting is about death, but doesn't it seem, well, a bit... erotic? So it wouldn't be beyond the pale to want to evoke that feeling as models, right?"

"Rhys, spit it out. What exactly are you suggesting?"

"You're flustered and your heart rate is sky high. You're naked. I'm half-naked and touching you rather sensually. Your body has already responded to the situation. You're nervous but you're also turned on," he said. Feyre's face had somehow turned even redder. She opened her mouth to say something but Rhys kept going, "And maybe that's even why you're nervous. This painting is supposed to be erotic. So you feel that. But you're also not relaxed. Do you know what tends to relax someone?" He didn't wait for a response, "An orgasm. What if we get into that position again and this time I kiss you senseless and cup your breasts and suck your nipples _and then I touch you until you come_ , quivering to your core?"

He put a hand on her waist and she shivered. The lids of Feyre's eyes were heavy and her pupils were blown so wide that they now resembled the inky blue of a midnight sky. Her lips were parted and she was breathing heavily. She'd unconsciously stepped closer to him.

"Okay," she rasped out.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Okay. Good," he said, and nodded.

They stepped away from each other and just moments later Mor walked back into the studio. Rhys waved a hand at Mor.

"Mor! Feyre and I have had a chat," he clapped Feyre on the back of her robe, "and we've come up with a way to get her to relax once we're back in position," Rhys rubbed circles over Feyre's shoulder blades. "It's, ah, a bit unusual, and it might take a little while to get there, but feel free to sketch anything inspiring! Oh, and may I request the music be off for this little experiment?"

Mor looked unfazed, and just said, "Yeah, yeah, fine, whatever. Now come over here and let me put you into position again."

Once they'd been properly positioned and Mor had returned to her easel, Rhys took stock of Feyre. He sent her a speedy wink and she gave a weak smile back. Her heart was beating just as fast and hard as it had been before, her breathing was quick and shallow once again, and her nipples were still stiff, but the rigidity of her body had changed to something less uncomfortable and more anticipatory. That was a good sign. He waited a few minutes and then subtly got to work.

He began with his fingers, repeating the feather-light brush over her nipple. Sure enough, Feyre let out a gasp. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The gasp didn't go unheard- from his periphery he saw Mor raise an eyebrow. This would certainly be a show, though his hope was that Feyre wouldn't even notice her audience. He pressed the fingertips of his other hand a little harder into the side of her breast and felt the pounding of her heart. His breath ghosted over the shell of her ear, and he whispered into it, "Look at me, please, Feyre darling. Shall I make it beat even faster?"

Feyre shivered and turned her head slightly to look at him. He moved to capture her lips with his. This kiss, this first one, was soft and slow, sweet and gentle. His lips pulled away, and he pressed his whole palm against her breast. He tutted, "Oh I think we can do better than that. I think I shall have to steal your breath." And with that, his lips crashed against hers in a hungry, bruising kiss. Her hands fisted into his hair. It wasn't until he could feel her breathlessness that he pulled away. Dazed and panting, Feyre let out a small whimper.

"That's much better," he crooned, retreating back to tuck away her hair and place a kiss behind her ear. He trailed a series of small kisses down to the pulse point on her neck, where the blood was singing in her veins. There Rhys paused, before sucking hard enough to feel her pulse in his mouth. Feyre let out a long, low, breathy moan, grabbing his wrist with one hand and bringing the other up to the breast Rhys still had cupped under his own palm. She could feel the pulse beneath his skin, tapping a staccato rhythm that matched hers. He traced a line along her neck and down her spine, making her shiver once more.

"You're doing so well, my darling girl," he said just below her earlobe. Her breath hitched. He licked from her ear, down her neck to her shoulder.

She moaned and bucked her hips, squeezing her thighs in arousal. "Fuck," she whispered.

He thumbed the hard nipple of her right breast, neglected until now but made all the more pleasurable because of it. Another gasp drew him down to lick her areola, his breath hot. He flicked his tongue across her nipple before taking the front of her breast in his mouth and sucking hard. Feyre was now moaning with more frequency, and his mouth returned for a kiss, his hand moving up to take its place. He fondled her gently but insistently, squeezing as he took the breath from her lungs. 

"Oh god, **_oh fuck_** , _please_ ," Feyre breathed into his neck, "You need to touch me."

"So needy," he chuckled.

"Rhysand. Touch. Me. **_Now_ ,**" Feyre growled, attempting to grab his hand. He pulled it just out of reach.

"And so bossy. All in time, my love," he assured her, fingers back to stroking her neck. He saw her jaw clench, and took the opportunity to distract her from another demand by planting another bruise along her collarbone. The resulting moan against his ear was perfect. He hummed against her skin, "Good girl."

Despite its speed he felt her heart skip and stumble, and his mind stored away a potential praise kink for later perusal. She ached for his touch, and bucked her hips again. He decided she'd been patient enough. He caressed her arm.

"I think it's time I stop your heart with pleasure my dear," he murmured against the top of her spine. He brought one hand back around to cup her left breast, and continued nibbling and kissing the trail along her neck. Then, ever so softly, he traced slow and winding whorls across her clavicle, down her sternum, across her breasts, and down her body, stopping to hover just below her navel. He took a moment to marvel at the flush that had risen from the bottom of her ribcage between her breasts and up her neck. She let out an impatient noise. He huffed a laugh and continued, "Greedy."

"You're a fiend," she muttered.

He responded with a hand splayed across her inner thigh, but kept it still.

Feyre growled, "Fucking tease, I swear if you don't touch me _right the fuck now_ I will end you!"

Rhys laughed again, but acquiesced. He drew his finger softly along the plump lips of her slit, back and forth, going slightly deeper each time. He seemed to have a good grasp on her tolerance because just as she was about to let out another complaint, he pounced. Sucking at a tender spot on her neck he found earlier, he slipped his finger across the swollen bundle of nerves at the top of her entrance. Feyre let out the loudest moan yet and her breathing quickened. 

“That’s it- come for me darling,” Rhysand purred.

Circling slowly at first, his rhythm gained speed as she began to squirm in his arms. Her eyes shuttered and her legs stretched out, locking together. Faster and faster, her chest began heaving in time with his movements, her moans coming quicker but shorter and higher in pitch. Rhys felt her body crescendoing into orgasm, breath held in and heartbeat hummingbird-fast, drumming against her ribs. At once she cried out a cute squeaky yelp, her back arched up into his hand; eyes squeezed shut and brows knit together, she gripped his arms, shaking as she came.

After several long moments she fell back against him, gradually breathing less heavily and more slowly, but with light, quick moans. Her eyelashes fluttered but her eyes remained closed. Her flushed skin began to lighten back to its regular shade of pale, and she finally- finally!- relaxed into his embrace, limbs loose and pliable.

" ** _Holy. Fucking. Hell._** That was- !" exclaimed a voice to the left. Rhys grimaced. Oh, right. Mor.

Feyre's eyes fluttered open again at the reminder that there had been another person in the room. The hazy and blissful afterglow was stronger than her embarrassment, however, so she simply looked sheepishly up at Rhys. He looked back at her, a smile of catlike satisfaction on his face.

"Seriously though, that was the hottest thing I've ever seen! What the _fuck_! I'll never be able to watch porn again!"

"Yes Mor, thank you for your input," Rhys drawled.

"Oh I am so glad I have a photographic memory. I managed to sketch some of that but for obvious reasons I was a little too hot and bothered while watching that display..."

"Mor, kindly shut up about it and let me stay relaxed," Feyre said, closing her eyes once more and melting even closer into Rhys's chest. His heartbeat thudded softly against her ear, calming her further.

"Yeah, yeah, fine, at least you're finally relaxed now," Mor said, waving a hand, and pressing play on the music. A sweet string melody came on and she settled back into Painter Mode.

"I love this song," Feyre murmured.

"It's very beautiful. As are you," Rhys whispered.

"You're an idiot. Stop trying to flatter me," she poked an elbow into his side. He laughed. They were quiet for a moment.

"...Was that okay then? You don't regret letting me do that?" Rhys asked softly.

"Rhys, it was incredible. Trust me, I'm no stranger to orgasms. I've had plenty by myself and with others. Mor wasn't wrong- that was heaven. In fact, I feel a bit bad about not reciprocating..." Feyre paused. Then, "...though there's always next time."

Rhys raised an eyebrow, "Next time? That's a bit forward, don’t you think?"

"Says the man who just made me _see stars_ ," she whacked his arm, startling a chuckle.

He winked, "I made you starry-eyed huh?" He shook his head, "You know, I'm not nearly as greedy as you, it seems, but I think I'll take you up on that 'next time'. After we have a coffee or go out to dinner of course. I _am_ a gentleman after all."

Feyre's response to that was lost as Mor came stomping over to readjust their positions and to tell them off for flirting and being horrible models.

* * *

  
  


The following week was the gallery show where Mor's class had their pieces displayed. Feyre and Rhys were excited to see the finished painting. They'd gone out on a rather successful date which had Mor crowing about not only her painting skills but also her matchmaking abilities.

Rhys stood outside the entrance to Feyre's dorm- they'd planned to walk over to the exhibition gallery at the Rainbow campus together. A few minutes later Feyre waltzed out the door and pecked Rhys on the cheek. It was cold, and her warm lips burned his skin. "Hello love. Ready to go?"

"Absolutely. Mor would kill us if we were late," Feyre said, linking arms and cuddling close for warmth.

The walk wasn't long but it was frigid and by the time they'd walked into the building's vestibule the only thing on their minds was the hot chocolate they could see being served inside the gallery. Mor spotted them through the window and waved excitedly. After giving them both massive hugs, gushing a bit, and stuffing two cups of hot cocoa into their hands she sped off.

Not five minutes later the professor called all of the guests' attention to talk about the project and her students, after which they'd been dispersed to their assigned places in the hall. Mor wasn't immediately visible, so Rhys and Feyre took their time wandering through the gallery and listening to each student talk about their work. The original piece being interpreted was displayed along with relevant sketches and studies. The final piece, framed and bearing the spotlight, had an artist's statement tacked beneath. As they walked they saw the assigned pieces varied by time period, artist nationality, and genre. They debated different aspects of art and painting until they reached Mor halfway through. She was in the middle of an explanation to a couple of freshman girls.

_"...and since Lévy went for a rather erotic version of Death and the Maiden, I thought about the feminist themes you could put behind it. I mean considering the Gothic style of his portrayal plus his own time period of 1900, women were considered sinful for having sex before marriage. The age of the maiden is hard to decipher, but she's clearly young, and the concept of a 'maiden' is usually that she's unmarried. Of course that's a translation to English, but even in his native language of French he titled her 'la jeune fille' which means 'the young girl' specifically, rather than just 'la fille' which is simply 'the girl'. So if she wasn't married then she'd never experience an orgasm, or at least not one by another's hand. What if Death gave everyone a different experience when taking their soul? An elderly person might feel the peace of a deep sleep. A child the warm breast of a caretaker. A soldier the relief of honour and a sacrifice in the name of duty to the realm. What would a maiden desire? That's just it- desire! The pleasure of an orgasm, the ecstacy, one last thrill for one last beat of her heart! And what is Death but an eternal lover? I mean we don't know what happens after death, but..."_

Feyre zoned out of Mor's rant- she'd heard it at least a dozen times in the last week. Instead, she focused on the painting in front of her. It was gorgeous. Mor had zoomed in on the tableau, and turned the figure of the maiden's blonde lover into a mere background character. The focus was on the relationship between the maiden and Death, and no one else. Mor had mentioned she might turn Death’s white, feathery wings into black wings more akin to bat’s wings, but she must’ve decided they were too hard to see with the dark Gothic background. She had, though, shifted Death's hand down below the maiden’s navel and gave her an expression of pure pleasure to evoke an even greater feeling of eroticism. It bore Feyre's likeness there with startling accuracy that had her blushing. She glanced over to the sketches and studies- that included details Mor had extracted from her photographic memory- and her breath hitched.

Rhys must have shared the thought, as he stroked her spine and whispered into her ear, "It's hot seeing you turned on there for all to see, and here for me alone."

"...How long do we have to stay here before we can politely excuse ourselves?"

"...Who said we have to leave to take care of this little problem...?"

" _ **Rhysand!**_ ”


End file.
